


mr barnes gets a haircut

by interestinggin



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Maru makes everything better, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interestinggin/pseuds/interestinggin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Guys,” says Sam, who has been trying really hard not to laugh for twenty minutes and has finally given up, “I’m aware I’m talking to two not particularly well adjusted people here, but you do realise that it’s a haircut, not a military operation?”</p><p>Bucky gives him a look that would turn a lesser man to ice. </p><p>“If it was a military operation, we would know what we were doing,” he says darkly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mr barnes gets a haircut

It takes, in the end, a blocked plughole, a comment from Tony that almost ends in serious violence, and two incidents of impaired vision on a mission for him to give in. “Alright,” says Bucky, “alright. But you’re doing this.”

“Me?” Steve repeats. “I don’t know anything about cutting hair!”

“Nobody else is coming near me with a blade,” says Bucky firmly, and that is that.

 

 

In a hopeless attempt at not mutilating his best friend, Steve spends that evening googling ‘help haircuts for men’, and then ‘style hair men 2014 cool?’, and finally ‘how do I cut hair? men’.

“What sort of thing do you want?” he asks over his shoulder, scrolling slowly down the page of images. Bucky passes him a bottle of beer and peers at the screen. As far as it is possible to tell with what Steve has come to think of as the New Bucky Thousand Yard Stare, he doesn’t look impressed.

“What did I used to have?” he asks finally.

Steve leans forward and gets as far as typing ‘Buc’ before his laptop finishes it for him.

“Did your computer just autocomplete my name?” asks Bucky, sounding amused.

“No.”

“What, did you used to type it in and sit here crying and jack-”

“Shut up,” says Steve, cheeks hot, “and look at your hair already.”

Bucky takes a swig of his beer and does so. “My God, I’m handsome.”

“You know, I think I preferred you murderous,” mutters Steve.

“Don’t worry, buddy, I still am,” he says breezily, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “I dunno. Looks a little old-timey, don’t you think”?

“I think it suits you,” says Steve, mouse lingering a little too long over a yellowed photograph of Bucky in uniform from the Smithsonian website.

Bucky smiles a little. He squeezes Steve’s shoulder. “Nah,” he says. “I want it shorter, not all gone. I’ve been a soldier too long; it’s time for a change.” He drinks from the bottle again, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

It twitches once. Steve raises an eyebrow. Bucky ignores it.

“I dunno,“ he says, a little too loudly. "I’ll leave it up to your discretion.”

“Right,” says Steve. “That’s the least helpful thing you could have said.”

“Atta boy,” says Bucky, and pats his shoulder proudly.

 

 

“Right,” says Steve. “Scissors.”

“Scissors,” agrees Bucky, who is  _fine_.

“Clippers,” Steve offers, eyeing them with distrust.

Bucky has a towel round his neck and is starting to look, for want of a better word - a word that would more accurately describe the mixed emotions of panic and blankness and confusion - nervous.

“Clippers,” he says, in the voice that other people might say “it’s terminal”.

“Comb,” Steve half-shrieks, holding it at arms’ length and looking visibly distressed.

“Comb. I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“Guys,” says Sam, who has been trying really hard not to laugh for twenty minutes and has finally given up, “I’m aware I’m talking to two not particularly well adjusted people here, but you do realise that it’s a haircut, not a military operation?”

Bucky gives him a look that would turn a lesser man to ice.

“If it was a military operation, we would know what we were doing,” he says darkly.

Sam shrugs. “Do you want me to do it?”

“ _No_ ,” says Bucky.

“I’m very trustworthy.”

“You don’t even  _have_  hair.”

“I have  _beautiful_  hair,” says Sam, sounding offended. “I have  _short_  hair, but that’s because my barber is really good and I don’t have to worry about looking like a skinhead like you white boys. I have the hair of  _kings_.”

“Go _away_ , Wilson.”

Sam gives him a winning smile. “Come on. Can’t I watch?”

“Sam,” says Steve, pointing the comb at him, “just - just - do you actually know anything about haircuts?”

“Oh, hell no, I just want the opportunity to draw something on his head with the clippers. I can make stencils and everything.”

“Right,” says Steve, sounding disappointed. “Well - well, you’re not going to do that. Just… sit there and…”

“Offer emotional support,” Natasha finishes, strolling into the room and sitting on the back of the sofa.

“ _Why is everyone here_?” Bucky hisses, folding his arms.

Sam smiles, and tosses his phone into the air and catches it. “The more emotional support the better, right? We’re _all_  here for you, guys. Because we’re your friends.”

“And if it goes wrong I want to put it on Instagram,” adds Natasha.

Bucky closes his eyes, rubs at his forehead, and swears quietly in Russian as she gives Sam a high-five.

“I feel that this was a more peaceful proceeding five minutes ago,” says Steve quietly.

“You better hurry up,” Natasha says, putting her feet on Sam’s lap and pulling out her phone. “It’ll be  _much_  worse when everyone else gets here.”

 

 

Actually, it turns out to be much better when everyone else gets there, largely because ‘everyone else’ turns out to be Clint, who has brought pizza.

“Nat said something potentially hilarious was happening?” he says, when Steve opens the door.

“ARGH,” says Steve, and disappears back down the hall.

Clint follows at a somewhat hesitant pace and puts the pizza boxes down as he enters the living room. “Did he just say ‘argh’?” he asks Sam and Natasha. “Like, enunciating the word and everything?”

“Steve screwed up,” says Natasha, and passes him her phone.

Clint watches a short video that consists of: Steve trying desperately to hack at Bucky’s mass of hair; Bucky hunched over on a chair looking like he wants to die; Bucky twitching suddenly and wildly; Steve accidentally cutting off a large chunk of the front part and leaving a jagged, horrible mess; Bucky noticing the stifled laugh from Natasha and demanding to see what Steve’s done, and then a brief and quite violent argument that ends in the chair being pushed over and Bucky leaving at high speed.

“He’s an artist,” is all that he can think to say.

“This appears to not be his medium,” says Sam. Clint grins at him.

 

 

Clint approaches the door with a certain amount of caution and knocks before craning his neck round. “Uh, hi. Is there a terrifying robot assassin in here?”

“I’m still not a robot,” says Bucky, from floor by the bed.

“Hi, Clint,” says Steve, slightly calmer now. He has his hand over Bucky’s, stroking the back of the wrist in a repetitive, circular motion.

“Hey. Do you wanna know where you messed up?”

Bucky looks at him. Clint thought he’d be struggling not to laugh - there’s a huge tuft of hair about two inches long sticking out of the front of his head like a unicorn’s horn, and the back of his hair is choppy and messy and all in all, it looks a bit like a child’s attempt with the safety scissors - but all of this is nothing compared to the fear, the raw, childish _fear_  on Bucky’s face.

Clint closes the door behind him and leans against it. “It’s just a haircut, right?” he says, waving his hands dismissively. “No big deal. Just a normal thing that normal people do, and anyone who can’t handle that must be  _crazy_ , right, like  _super_ crazy?”

Bucky glares at him. Steve, a ghost of a smile on his lips, squeezes Bucky’s hand.

“And you reckon you played it safe ‘cause you got Steve to do it, ‘cause you trust Steve, ‘cause, fuck - sorry, Cap - who doesn’t trust Steve? He’s Captain America!” Clint raises an eyebrow. “Except you spent  _seventy years_  being prepared to kill Steve, James. Steve and everyone like him. And you’ve got so many crazy thoughts running around your head about him that I ain’t actually hugely surprised that you couldn’t handle him pointing sharp things at your head. That ain’t gonna help you get better at all.”

“I’m not  _ill_ ,” Bucky snaps.

“Yeah, you are,” says Clint ruefully. He scratches at his chin. “Sorry.”

“You have a  _terrible_  bedside manner, Clint,” says Steve.

Clint shrugs. “I tells it like I see it.”

Bucky’s hand clenches in a fist, tight enough that his nails would be biting into his skin if he had it. Clint raises both hands in surrender.

“Look,” he says, “all I’m saying is - the thing that you screwed up? Is thinking that you’re gonna magically get better, ‘cause you’re not. You’re ill. Sometimes bad shit happens to good people - _sorry_ , Cap - and you need to start dealin’ with that. Might be you’re ill for a really long time, but if that’s the case then, hey, you dealt with Skinny Snotbag over here, right? You’ve had the training for it. Sometimes you’re gonna get scared by stuff that seems easy. And that’s okay. That’s honestly okay.”

Bucky is quiet for a long time. His hand unclenches; the other, held loosely in Steve’s, holds tighter. He laughs; a short, businesslike chuckle. “You been taking lessons off Stevie on how to make motivational speeches to people?”

“It’s my job to watch,” says Clint with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Cheer up, James. You might be crazy, but I reckon the ‘gum stuck in hair’ look’s gonna catch on real quick. At least you’ll look good doin’ it.”

 

 

“You know what you’re doing,” says Bucky again.

“Yes,” says Clint, plugging in the clippers. “I’ve been doing my hair for thirty years.”

Bucky takes a deep breath.

“Look at Steve,” Clint repeats. “Look at Steve, and if you want me to stop, tell him.”

Natasha opens the door quietly and slips inside, followed by Sam, who holds out a box in front of him.

“Hey. Robocop. We brought you emotional support. And pizza. Mostly pizza.”

“Still not a robot,” says Bucky, but he accepts the slice of pizza.

“I’m turning them on now,” says Clint calmly. “There may be a slight  _buzzing_. Prepare yourselves.”

“Do you want to see a video of a cat jumping into boxes?” asks Natasha, tapping at her phone.

“I feel like I’m expected to say ‘yes’,” says Bucky, at the same time as Sam, in tones of rapture, says “ _YES_ ”.

Natasha brings up the video, props the phone on Bucky’s lap, and they watch it in a silence that is broken only by the hum of the clippers and the occasional snip.

“Done,” says Clint, twenty minutes later.

“ _Sssh_ ,” say the other four in unison. The cat has just attempted to climb into a box the size of a guinea pig. Steve’s hand covers Bucky’s as ever, large and a comforting weight. And from out of the group, Natasha’s hand reaches up, and curls gently into Clint’s; squeezes _thank you_  in Morse code. He smiles, rests his elbows on the back of the chair, leans forward, and watches along with them.

 

 

“Huh,” says Bucky to the mirror.

Clint chews on his fingernails until Natasha slaps his hand. “Well?” he asks.

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “Okay. It’s not as short as I thought.”

“Well, I ain't a professional.”

“You look good, Buck,” Steve says, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s waist. “You look  _real_  good.”

Bucky’s shoulders freeze at the sudden touch. His hand clenches. He hesitates for a moment; he meets Clint’s eyes in the mirror, and his breathing has gone quiet and Steve has gone serious and still and for that moment they are all waiting.

“Alright,” says Bucky quietly. “I’m a bit scared.”

“Yeah?” Steve doesn’t move. Natasha, cuddled under Clint’s arm, sits up a little straighter. Sam puts a warning hand on her shoulder. “That’s allowed, Buck. That’s okay. It’s okay to be scared.”

Bucky takes in a deep breath and lets it out real slow. "Yeah,” he says, a little less convinced. “Yeah, it is.”

“Damn right it is,” says Sam firmly. Bucky smiles a shaky smile, lowers his eyes.

He turns, puts a hand on Steve’s arm to steady himself, brushes his hair out of his eyes, and smiles.

“Alright,” he says again. “Alright. Let’s do this.”


End file.
